Broken
by Man Of Reason
Summary: The broken need time to recover, but the world waits for no man... AU


Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be.

A/N: Just something I needed to get out of my head. And i have no one to check my work, so sorry about mistakes. Anyway hope it's ok…

**Broken: Chapter One**.

As always it was the distant sound of hammer on anvil that woke him, dragging him from the only place he ever found peace and into the waking world. It was a slow and arduous process that he fought every step of the way. Eventually though, alertness would creep up on him, betraying him.

It was his own senses that did it, making his brain aware. The feel of the blankets, coarse and rough, his sweaty hair plastered against his face, irritating him. The distinct lack of pain surprised him, making him curious. The musky smell of the room came next, something that never quiet vanished, no matter how much wood was burnt in the hearth. Then his eyes would betray him, finally focusing behind his eyelids and taking note that they could now see red, instead of the pure black of night. But first, always first, was the near constant clang of the blacksmith that woke him just after sunrise.

The worst part though, came just after he opened his eyes and squinted against the early morning sunlight that was streaming through his window. As his eyes took in the single wooden chair along with a table that it didn't in anyway match, the iron basin half full with water, the bare wooden floor boards, the ripped and dirty curtains that hung lazily over the window, he frowned in confusion and his body tensed. For it was in that moment that his mind began the search for answers, it was in that brief moment before he remembered that he thought of the people that should be in this otherwise empty room and weren't, thought of the places he should have been and was no longer welcome. It made remembering torture.

When the images came, in one violent never ending stream of pain, misery and anger, that was when he truly woke. His eyes snapped open; his breathing instantly became labored, heavy in his own ears. His body jerked upright, letting the blanket fall down to his waist. The uneven beat of the hammer was forgotten as he tried to calm himself. The distant part of him that had been marveling at the ease with which he moved stuttered and died. He now knew the price for that, one he would have never paid, had he known.

Although knowing that he had done it before, countless time, it still didn't stop him. He through back the blankets with a muffled yelp and scrambled as fast as his shaky legs would carry him over to the small and dirty mirror that hung askew on the wall. A stranger stared back at him.

One hand supported him against the wall as the other lightly traced the outlines of his face, making himself believe what he was seeing. Blue eyes, black hair, a strong jaw and a small scar the only thing that interrupted the stubble on his checks. Perhaps as young and tall as he should be, yet that was the only consolation. A look of horror crossed the features in the mirror as he remembered.

It was a face he had only seen twice in life before it became his own. Once in a ruined city and the other…the other in the middle of fiery pit inside of a mountain as he came to face his destiny. His hand trembled visibly now as he whispered in a voice that was not his own, 'I was the Lord of Morning…,' the far too deep voice paused, and he tried to steady it, 'I _am_ the Lord of Morning. I _am_ the Dra-.' The voice faltered and died.

A moment later the hand that had been rubbing the light growth on his strong chin slammed into the wall, making a bang that would make the blacksmiths proud. The mirror shattered, pieces falling to the floor, towards his unprotected feat. But he never let it come to that.

In an instant he snatched at _Saidin_, pulled it into him, and welcomed the raging torrents that wanted to burn him from existence, the avalanche of power that threatened to obliterate his very soul. It was a dance along a razors edge that he now lived for. The pieces of the mirror froze in their descent halfway to the floor, a simple weave that thickened the air to a point that nothing could move through it. Somewhere, in the distance outside the void, he felt a small joy at its purity, at the distinct lack of dizziness that at one time would have beseeched him.

Yet, as he watched the pieces of the mirror begin their ascent to their preordained spot on the otherwise vacant wall, he quickly and ruthlessly crushed it. It wasn't hard; all he had to think on was what he had lost to gain that small mercy.

He watched for a brief moment as the mirror seemingly melted back together, all traces that it had been broken vanishing before his eyes, the only evidence of the incident been the dull ache in his right hand. Once again askew, he left it and turned away, forgotten again for another day.

In the time it took him to dress in his simple ill fitting breeches and coarse woolen shirt, a far cry from the silks to which he had once been accustomed, his rage died and acceptance settled over him. '_It was hard to still be angry for hours, especially after so long_,' he told himself dryly. Momentarily he paused in the act of pulling on his well worn leather shoes, and this time he his surprised voice filled the tiny room, 'Light, it's almost been four years.' Four years since he had woken, disorientated, hungry…and with _saa_ flying across his vision. His last partying gift from the Betrayer, a body addicted to a power, a poison, that he had no hope of accessing and wouldn't even if he could. It had near killed him and should have, more than once.

He stamped his foot down into his boot, hard, than stormed out the door and into the tiny kitchen of his home. He tried to distract himself as he prepared and ate a simple meal, oh how he tried, yet nothing could stop the thoughts from entering his head, the thoughts that made his stomach churn, made him want to forget about eating ever again. The cheese in his hand was quickly loosing its taste. '_Ishamael died in the Stone, his body slid off Callandor and lay lifeless on the cool tiles for hours. He was dead, and yet the Dark One brought him back_.' He paused and watched the cheese in his shaking hands as his mind asked the inevitable question, '_Where did this body come from, the body that was now his? Who was he? Light, please say he didn't have a fam_-'

The void came to him then, calm and reassuring, emotionless. As it had for the last two years _saidin _once again sang to him, a low mummer in the distance, comforting him. He didn't draw the power into him as he sat there, just allowed himself to calm down enough so that he could finish his breakfast of dried meats, cheese and bread.

Even inside the void, though, he was not immune. Out of nowhere, seemingly floating up from the vast emptiness the raspy words of the Aelfinn came to him, words that once gave him hope, yet now he knew their bitter irony. 'If you would live, you must die' and die Rand al'Thor had. Buried in a simple grave outside Edmonds Field, which he himself had visited, friends, family, loved ones, all ripped away from him. The world moved on as he struggled to survive, a world that held no place for him now. Even in his own memories, al'Thor's face was often replaced by the one he now wore. Somehow Thomas Renshar was Rand al'Thor, yet Rand al'Thor could never have become Thomas Renshar. Same memories, same dreams, same responsibilities, yet completely devoid of the ability to achieve and keep them.

In a strange way that man was dead and gone, who he had been could never be recovered the way it once was, yet his spirit still lived on, alone. The madmen that had once plagued his life left behind in a dieing body, along with the link to four women. "Light, how many times I wished to be alone in my own mind," he whispered bitterly as he laughed. Now that he was he longed for anything but. The bond to his wives would have been his one and only true link to al'Thor, and even that was kept from him.

"One day I'm going to have serious words with the Creat-"he begun, while bringing a piece of meat to his mouth, only to be cut off by a bird call sounding loud and clear. It came from every direction at once, the walls shook, and his small home rattled. One of his wards had been tripped, to the south east. A man had channeled _saidin_ in the city. The piece of meat fell to the table as he stood, the chair scrapped back along the floor boards in a soft, drawn out rumble.

For a few seconds he stood shocked, he felt his ward collapse on its target, making him ever traceable. He was coming closer, he was running. One word escaped his lips and the sound of his deep voice filled the room as he sneered, "Dreadlord." An instant later he was moving, his cloak was thrown over his shoulders, his sword found its way from leaning against the wall to strapped around his waist. His breakfast lay forgotten as he pulled open the door to his home and stepped out onto the streets of Caemlyn. As the brisk morning air hit him in full force, he pulled the hood of his cloak up over his face and, after a moment to gain his bearings, set off after his prey at a dead run. '_No Dreadlord channeled within a league of his children, and lived._'

* * *

He was a fool; there was no other word for it, an absolute fool. He rounded the corner, just barely keeping his footing on the cobblestone street as his feet tried to slip out from under him. He sprinted onwards though, desperate to keep his distance between himself and the constant clang of the chain mail boots on the cobblestone. If he could make it back to where he had arrived, to the city gates even, he would gain his freedom. If the guards caught him and he had to fight, he could more than handle himself but if they slowed him down too much…there were Aes Sedai in the palace. '_Lots of Aes Sedai. Far too many. Blood and ashes, one was too many_,' he thought wildly. So he ran.

Every footstep sent a jolt through his body, every moment his heart seemed to beat faster, every time he had to swerve past a cart, horse or citizen, it seemed to lurch, waiting for the disaster that never came. His pack bounced painfully against his back and his cloak tried to tangle his feet, yet he dared not slow. '_Were the shouts of the guards getting louder?_' he frantically wondered. Grateful that it was still early and few people were outside their homes, he risked a glance over his shoulder and immediately wished he hadn't.

Behind him there were no less than thirty men. Thirty men and one woman. A woman carrying a bow. A woman with long blond braids carrying a bow. '_Birgitte Trahelion_,' he thought incredulously as he jumped up some steps, '_I make one mistake and I get the infamous Captain General of the Queens guards come after me? She's warder to the Queen! _' Briefly he wondered if he should stop running in a straight line, just to make himself a harder target, before his mind snapped at him once again, '_FOOL_'

All he had wanted to do was come into Caemlyn, re-supply and slip out again before anyone even noticed he had been. But he just had to run into a patrol, and they all just had to start looking at him strangely and he had gotten nervous. Now it was far more likely he was going to wind up locked up in the White Tower then simply fed.

He rounded a corner and his breath caught in his throat at the sight of two man dressed in the red and white of Andor running towards him, not twenty paces from where he was. Had he been a few seconds slower they would have been on top of him before he had a chance to react. As it was he had just enough time to pull _saidin_ into him once more, fling out a web of air and water, and watch as they flew into the building to his left as he ran by.

For the first time he let a smirk touch his features, he could see the gates and they were still open. Outside the walls he could Travel by sight, covering large chunks of ground until he made it back to where his gateway had opened earlier and from there he cou-.

Perhaps had he not been so focused on the gates he would have seen him, perhaps if he hadn't already been thinking about his ultimate destination he would have been more alert, but until it hit him he felt nothing, not – one – thing. One instant people were scrambling out of his way, fear in there eyes. The next he was soaring through the air, as if a giant hand had pick him up and simply cast him aside, it was the most disorientating feeling he had ever experienced. Then there was pain, blinding pain. It started in his shoulder as it struck the alleyway wall, then the back of his head as it snapped back on impact and finally in his knee as he hit the ground, hard.

When he finished rolling end over end down the narrow lane and his vision cleared enough, he brought his head up, and immediately knew he needed to run, far, far away. Yet all he could do was groan. The man coming towards him was covered nearly completely in his cloak, of his face only his chin could be seen. His stride was slow and measured, anger leaked from every movement. Behind him, at the entrance to the alleyway, stood Birgitte Trahelion surrounded by city guards. Her fists were uselessly pounding against an invisible barrier, her expression one of shock.

The man followed his gaze and glanced over his shoulder. Momentarily he paused, as he seemed to recognize her, then turned back around and started towards him in a rush. The man seemed to ignore the blood on the ground as he grabbed him by the collar and dragged him backwards, further down the alleyway. He would have struggled had he been able to, instead all he could to was watch as he was once again hurled backwards, through a gateway that lead to a void outside the pattern. Something he had not seen since his days at the Black Tower.

This time he landed on a platform that was half black, half white, separated only by a sinuous line. His pack broke, spilling its contents over the platform. He had no time for wondering about that though as his attacker stepped through the gateway casually, letting it close shut behind him. The man strolled towards him; his face was still covered, except now…except now a blade of bright red flame glowed in his hands. A heron marked the hilt.

A/N: Just something that caught my attention, and imagination. It has actually been theorized that something like this might happen and it got me thinking with the what if…anyway hope you enjoyed it.


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